


Frame The Night

by soullessbrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism, Weechesters, Young Dean Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, Young Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 16:11:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soullessbrothers/pseuds/soullessbrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam can hear the other bed creak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frame The Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Colette_Capricious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colette_Capricious/gifts).



There’s a groan in a spring and Sam curls tight. The streetlamp burns orange through gapped curtains and streaks across two beds and worn carpet. He swallows. Half-shadows twist and his grey vision is pinpricked. He blinks, once, again, until the fuzzed edges sharpen. There’s another creak.

Blankets rustle when Sam turns over. There’s a glossy paper turn and he spots a reflection of light. It’s just a second, barely a second, and the light disappears. He’s left with the orange and shifts on the other bed. Dean. Sam pulls his lip into his mouth and sucks. Dean is facing away from him, on his side. His blanket is a triangle where his leg tents up. Underneath the covers, ripples sweep back and forth.

They stop.

“Sam? You awake?”

He should answer the whisper. Sam’s bed had creaked too when he changed his position. He should tell Dean that there was a shape, a tug at the back of his neck. A different murmur in the dark. He doesn’t. He’s brave now, as brave as Dean was.

Sam remembers tip-toes at a bad motel counter. He had tried to stretch up for something, a bowl, a glass, a something else that he had wanted, but Dean was there. He had been taller and passed it down. When Sam dropped it and gasped, it was Dean that had picked up each piece between his fingers. _You’ve gotta be careful, Sammy_ and _you can’t do it, ’s dangerous_ had come with Dean’s scowl. Dean wasn’t afraid of the sharp edges or the hiss of blood that caught the porcelain. There was no nightmare in drawers or cupboards that could make Dean scream.

There’s a grunt. Sam’s chest pulls. Dean rustles something again and when Sam squints, he can see the edge of a magazine pushed to stand against the wall. It’s a strain, but some of the light curls down the page. In the dark, from that distance, Sam can’t see words or images. There are only dips of grey and orange.

Before he can raise himself, peer closer, Dean’s bed squeaks. The magazine slides down the wall and crumples to the floor. Dean rolls onto his back. Sam can see his mouth, the edge of his nose. Shadows blindfold him. The middle of the window casts black in a line over his chest, but his stomach is lit. Dean pushes down the covers and he casts a shadow of his own.

“Fuck,” Dean whispers.

He’s quiet. Sam holds his breath. He watches Dean wrap fingers around his dick. He bends his wrist to rub up to the head and back down. It twitches. It shines.

Dean’s legs are wide and Sam can see him flex his hips. He pushes up against his palm and it’s slow. He rocks like a wave. Sam follows his silhouette. The black and burnt outline rolls up from his ribs until his ass is in the air. Dean moans, tight in his throat. Sam can see his arm move, but he’s lost around that hand. Dean pumps and there’s more, he’s wet. Sam has to swallow.

The air is slick and blue. Damp strokes hang from Dean’s cock into the space between their beds. When Dean quickens, so does each sound. He groans again, bolder, hissing and soft enough to purr down Sam’s chest. It curls into his stomach.

“Dean.”

Silence.

Louder. “Dean?”

“Sam?” Dean drops his knees and tugs up the covers. The mattress squeaks again. “Go back to sleep, Sammy.”

“I, I can’t sleep.”

Dean groans, but it’s not the same as before. “Too tired for a story, dude.”

“No, I, I know.”

“You wanna try again?”

“I’m sorry.”

Sam makes himself roll over to face the darker wall. He hears another sigh. Dean’s going to go back to what he was doing. Now that he has more, pretend space, Sam can feel how hot he is. He feels the burn of his cheeks, the flush of his chest and the embers behind his gut. He’s jolted by a creak and the rustles that follow it. A weight bends his bed and he lets out a breath that he didn’t know he had held so tightly.

“Sammy? You okay?”

He can’t speak. Sam twists onto his other side and tugs the blanket back over his knees. He shuffles further along and looks up at his brother. Dean pauses, looks at the space and takes it. He lies down and pulls at his boxers. There’s a pull over the fabric, too, but not by Dean’s hand. Sam stares until he can force his eyes up.

“Sam?”

“I, Dean, I, I’m sorry.”

“Dude. Why?”

“I didn’t mean to,” he whimpers. “I, I heard you. You were—”

“Whoa, Sammy, you don’t listen to—”

“I’m sorry.”

Dean shakes his head. He slides his arm out and Sam takes it. He crawls into Dean’s chest to pin that arm to the mattress. Dean twitches a smile and stretches his hand over Sam’s spine. They lie together, Sam’s nose against Dean’s collarbone. His own hands find their way over Dean, one curled against his front and the other on his hip.

If that hand slips into Dean’s underwear, if it grazes a softening dick, if Sam smiles, if Dean kisses his crown and they lie tangled together, skin to almost-skin, then neither of them admit it.


End file.
